


Our Piano

by LSDAndKizuki



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Piano, Supernatural Elements, Victorian setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-25 00:19:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9794063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSDAndKizuki/pseuds/LSDAndKizuki





	

Our pianoforte was a fine old Broadwood, with a clear note but a frightful buzzing habit. It came and went, the buzzing, but there were ways to deal with it: blankets, and handkerchiefs, and subtle movements of the brass candlesticks which decorated its face. Its keys were yellowed, but it had stood in our drawing room some fifty years, perhaps longer, and had never fallen more than a half-note flat.

I played the pianoforte nearly every day. It was a delight to the household, especially the servants. For them, it was a chance to listen to some pleasant melodies without needing to burn their wages on the music halls. They did not mind the buzzing: it gave the music character, they insisted. This was why I noticed it with such concern when I sat down one day to play, balancing my fingers on a healthy G-chord, only to hear a wheeze from inside.

Not even the semblance of a note. Just a wheeze, like an old air pump. I pressed down on the keys repeatedly, my brow furrowed, and stood from the seat to have a look inside, but something stopped me. I was pressing the D-note harder with each push, trying to coax some music out of it with brute force, but all I achieved was a soft moan.

It was nonsensical, but that is the only way I can describe it: a moan. The note seemed to cry out, quiet and unmusical and very, very sad. I froze, my feet on tip-toes between the stool and the pedals. Suddenly I was not so eager to look inside the pianoforte. I sat back on the stool, as silently as I could, emitting only the smallest of creaks. I listened attentively, my fingers still ghosting over the keys, not pushing, but waiting. I waited for further noises. The gold lettering between the candlesticks told me nothing. The top of the instrument was dusty; one of the maids was neglecting her duty. I called, instinctively, for Mabel, our housekeeper.

It was then that cry returned, and with it a word: _“Out!”_

A chill fell onto the room as I gazed upon our piano. Dark wood, heavy groaning pedals, an unglamorous keyboard, yet strangely ostentatious candlesticks. And a sense of roiling, living tissue beating from inside, invisible and inaudible, but terrifying and tangible. My arms were glued to my sides now; I could not touch the incarcerating thing.

Mabel came upstairs. Instead of chastising her for the neglected dusting, I gasped, “Oh, Mabel, the pianoforte has stopped working!”

She frowned. “One moment, m’lady.” With maternal imperiousness she lifted the top of the pianoforte and looked inside. From my position on the stool, all I saw was her head disappearing into a black gap beneath the lid. I heard nothing, save for a few more quiet moans, but these were almost certainly created in my head. Finally, she closed the lid and said briskly, “Just needs feeding, that’s all.”

She fed it with some chicken bones we’d kept for the dogs, gingerly lowering them into the cavernous insides of the instrument. A meagre offering. She looked inside it for a moment longer, watching the response to her gift. Then she played a few experimental notes on the stiff ivory: the first arpeggios of Bach’s _Prelude._ The sound was clear, with not a buzz or hiss of disapproval to be heard. “He’ll be quiet for a little while, now,” said Mabel.


End file.
